1st Milkshake [video]
Jan. 3rd, 2013 04:00 pm[The keepers of the dead do not sleep. It is a luxury reserved only for their charges. But some point during her forced residency in Midgard, Leah has learned to envy those who sleep. The long hours of night pass slow when there is no assignment to carry forth. Only so much of her time can be spent watching Loki's window far away in Asgardia, envious of his nocturnal rest. It is a rest she so much desires, though such a gift would undermind her duties as handmaiden. Had she not been tasked, after all, to keep watch over Loki at all hours as to ensure fulfillment of his debt to her mistress?
A little sleep, she thinks sometimes, would be of no harm. It would make instead for an interesting escape, a chance to perhaps observe her subconcious at work. Restlessness does not often get the better of her. Neither do these fancies or whims. But tonight, one does. And for a full three minute, she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep.
When her eyes open, the surroundings are not what she expects. She sits no longer on a rock outside the entrance to her dirty great hole in the ground. There is no Thori grumbling in the distance, threatening to cock his leg (tonight on the great world tree). The sky is no longer black but for the pinprick of light from stars and moons or the faint glow of Asgardia a mile away.
She is in what she recognizes as a Midgardian apartment, sitting on a twin-sized bed with an unfamiliar journal opened in front of her. Sunlight streams in from an open window and the chilly breeze of winter only faintly tickles her skin. Her arms are bare, a fact that perhaps catches Leah most by surprise. She only owns one dress, a long gown of dark green. This simple white shift is not her dress.
There is another glance down at the journal, at the words appearing on it as if it were the Stark phone Loki so foolishly brought her. Her hands ball into fists as she raises them level with her chest and sparks of neon green magic (magic that looks very much like lightning to the unfamiliar) flicker both from hands and eyes.
Leah of Hel is not amused.]
Loki Laufeyson! [The name is yelled even though she suspects the young god of mischief to be nearby, observing for himself the mischief, it seems, that he has just concluded. The hows of her sudden transport to Broxton will be puzzled later. For now, she knows no greater desire than to flush out the boy and pummel him fiercely.] Cease this joke of practical nature right now and show yourself!
A little sleep, she thinks sometimes, would be of no harm. It would make instead for an interesting escape, a chance to perhaps observe her subconcious at work. Restlessness does not often get the better of her. Neither do these fancies or whims. But tonight, one does. And for a full three minute, she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep.
When her eyes open, the surroundings are not what she expects. She sits no longer on a rock outside the entrance to her dirty great hole in the ground. There is no Thori grumbling in the distance, threatening to cock his leg (tonight on the great world tree). The sky is no longer black but for the pinprick of light from stars and moons or the faint glow of Asgardia a mile away.
She is in what she recognizes as a Midgardian apartment, sitting on a twin-sized bed with an unfamiliar journal opened in front of her. Sunlight streams in from an open window and the chilly breeze of winter only faintly tickles her skin. Her arms are bare, a fact that perhaps catches Leah most by surprise. She only owns one dress, a long gown of dark green. This simple white shift is not her dress.
There is another glance down at the journal, at the words appearing on it as if it were the Stark phone Loki so foolishly brought her. Her hands ball into fists as she raises them level with her chest and sparks of neon green magic (magic that looks very much like lightning to the unfamiliar) flicker both from hands and eyes.
Leah of Hel is not amused.]
Loki Laufeyson! [The name is yelled even though she suspects the young god of mischief to be nearby, observing for himself the mischief, it seems, that he has just concluded. The hows of her sudden transport to Broxton will be puzzled later. For now, she knows no greater desire than to flush out the boy and pummel him fiercely.] Cease this joke of practical nature right now and show yourself!